Page 71 of Inside Silence
“Sure. Piece of pie for dessert?”
It’s on my lips to say no. Then I remember my pathetic dinner last night, that consisted of an expired packet of ramen noodles I found in the back of the cupboard in our little kitchen, when I went digging for food at eight thirty.
I can have the pie for dinner.
“Yes, to the pie. Whatever is on offer today.”
Brenda mock salutes me before she backs out of the room.
I take a couple of steps back from the whiteboards to check out what I’ve put up there so far. A mugshot of Ben from a drunk and disorderly we brought him in for several months ago is in the center of the board on the left. Underneath it I stuck a few pictures the State Patrol crime scene team took at the site.
One image is of the blood-covered rock that was found in the underbrush several feet from where Ben’s body was discovered, where it was likely tossed after the attack. Another is of half a boot print, found in the damp soil partially underneath a fern. The only boot print recovered, which leads me to believe some effort was made to erase any possible incriminating evidence. Unfortunately, the imprint appears to have come from a tactical boot. The type is widely worn, including by most first responders. It wouldn’t be the first time someone inadvertently left evidence behind at a crime scene. It happens.
We’re in the process of taking prints from all personnel on scene for comparison, but it’s tedious and until we can confirm either way if the print belongs to one of us, I’m keeping the picture up on the board.
The one other item found at the scene that could become important evidence, once we have something to compare it to, is a small tuft of fabric stuck to a bramble bush less than three feet from the victim. We’ve already ruled out it came from anything the victim was wearing.
I’ve drawn lines out from the victim’s image, connecting him to locations and any related social connections. For instance, home would connect him to Wanda and Dozer, as well as a handful of other neighbors on the street. The Kerrigan Pub is another frequent location, but the list of names there is much longer. The diner is on there, although reportedly he only really talked to the waitstaff. I’ve also added the trucking company he worked for prior to being let go and the few people on staff he would have had contact with. Long-haul trucking is a solitary job.
My objective is to throw everything I know on the board and start eliminating possibilities. It’s frustrating because the ones with the best motive did not have opportunity. Both Wanda and Dozer had pretty solid alibis for the window of time the ME concluded he was killed in. Wanda’s sister and husband vouched for Wanda, and Dozer’s cell phone pinged off the same tower from the Wednesday he said he left until the morning we were called to the Rogers’s house. Besides, he’d had a buddy there to help him fix the roof. He was accounted for.
“Putting it on the big board? Is it helping?” my father asks as he walks in.
“Not yet, but I hope it will.”
Dad is actually the one who taught me laying out a case on the whiteboard sometimes helps you see the forest through the trees when you get stuck.
I turn to face him.
“You wanted to see me,” he reminds me.
He’s standing on the opposite side of the conference table, illustrating the divide I feel between us.
“Yeah. Would you mind closing the door? And take a seat.”
Five minutes later he jumps to his feet, his face a worrisome shade of purple as a vein pops on his forehead.
“What?” he barks.
“Dad, you need to take it easy.”
“You’re gonna have to spell it out for me, Savannah,” he indicates with barely contained anger as he braces his knuckles on the table.
“Jeff Sanchuk has been making false traffic stops to pilfer money off tourists. He’s been extorting people and businesses in town for free meals, free goods, or whatever. Some of the behavior has been corroborated by other deputies working with him.”
“Under your nose?”
Damn, that stings, even if he’s right.
“And under yours,” I return, not feeling good about it.
If I wasn’t a hundred-percent sure to begin with, I’m absolutely positive now my father had no idea. His only culpability is the same as mine; complacency.
“Tell me that bastard is still here in the holding cell so I can have a word with him.”
“He was moved to the jail at the county courthouse, Dad. And you’re not going to throw your weight around to try to get in to see him either. You’re going to leave it to me,” I state firmly.
From the mutinous look on his face, I can tell he’s not on board with that idea. Too bad for him, that’s the way it’s going to be.
